WE WERE returning home from a night out in Poynton when a police patrol car pulled me over.

I had no idea he’d been trailing me and was surprised when the officer flashed his lights and invited me to step into his car. (I hoped he would ask where I was between 9 and 10 so I could say primary school.)

“Do you know what speed you were doing on the Silk Road?” he asked.

“No idea,” I replied truthfully.

“Forty mile per hour.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I replied.

“There's a 70 mph limit on the Silk Road.”

“So?”

“So, why were you only doing 40?”

“I never drive above my age limit.”

“It's Saturday night, the road's deserted and it’s a 70mph limit. I see you doing 40. What do you suppose I think?”

“My big end’s gone.”

“No.”

“I'm reducing my carbon footprint.”

“Try again.”

“Illegal immigrants are hiding in the boot.”

“Blow into this.” He produced a breathalyser.

I huffed and puffed until my eyes crossed.

“You've not had a drop.”

“Correct.”

“Well, I certainly approve of careful driving, Mr Barlow, off you go.”

Back in the car I asked Mrs B why she thought a member of Cheshire's finest would target me for no apparent reason.

“You are joking,” she laughed.

“Why?”

“Maybe criticising them for a decade in the local paper might have something to do with it.”

“You really think so?”

“You’re lucky not to be serving a life sentence.”

“What for?”

“Writing on an empty head.”

Wives can be so cynical.

THE VIEWS EXPRESSED ON THIS PAGE ARE VIC BARLOW’S AND NOT NECESSARILY THOSE OF THE EXPRESS